Linger
by SkyTraveller
Summary: Mortals are fragile, bendable, and breakable. Loki knows this to be an incontrovertible truth. It is the end of the world as they know it, so why are they so persistent in trying to prove him wrong? Sometimes even the God of Lies must eat his words. Eventual Loki/OC
1. Prologue

_Linger_

**_Prologue_**

x

_And so he fell. _

Frigid air blew past him, worse than any storm or blizzard that he had ever encountered in his life, colder than even the bitter frozen tundra of Jötunheim. It pierced through his armor and even his frost giant constitution might have shivered if there was any part of him that still knew of warmth, but his heart was colder still. Falling, falling, he stared unblinkingly as the two figures at the edge of the destroyed Bifröst shrunk in the distance. The single tear dripping down from his left eye froze and floated off, fading into space; shortly, so faded the anguished cry that echoed through the cosmos, but continued to ring through his ears. No, the voice had cried. The word that had followed him around his entire life would be the last he would ever hear. Denial. Rejection. But was that not all there ever was?

Asgard. The city in the sky, realm of a race of powerful warrior gods, a beacon of light and hope that penetrated every dark corner of the cosmos. A capital wrought of gold, home to heroes, the just and noble arbiters of peace; all held together by a thread of lies. His eyes were open now. There was no beauty here, only an empty shell of hard stone and cold metal. All the warmth he had known, his family, all of it gone. All of it never really his to begin with.

Loki turned away from his former home and faced the swirling black abyss. He was certain that this was the end. He welcomed it.

The black hole opened its jaws wide and swallowed him whole. Then, there was nothing but darkness.

* * *

**Bella Coola, British Columbia**

With a staggering population of 2000, the remote North American valley was not exactly the center of all activity in the world. The small rural community probably equated no less than a single quark on the scale of the whole universe. It was a far cry from the hubbub of New York City, but Dr. Bruce Banner found that to be one of its best qualities. It was quiet, peaceful, and—most importantly—_there were no people_.

Thirty-one days had passed without incident. Thirty-one days since the _other guy_ turned all of Harlem into a real-life version of Tokyo after a Godzilla attack. Thirty-one days since he jumped out of a helicopter and then woke up cold and naked in a field across the continent. Thirty-one days since he turned his back on the life he knew he could never have.

Still, there was a part of him that didn't want to give up hope. Some part of him that clung to the idea that if he could learn to control _it_, and then he could go home. To Betty. The man in him hoped, but the scientist knew that it was a pipe dream. If he ever went back, there would be nothing for him but glass cages and whitecoats trying to take his blood.

But still, he had to try.

Sitting by the desk, Bruce stared at the envelope in his hands. He would send it off in a few days and be on his way. He'd be long gone before anyone could trace his whereabouts. The wood in the old cabin creaked against a hurl of wind that blew through the valley and he heard the kettle start to whistle. He got up from his sitting position and made his way to the kitchen, frowning slightly as he went. There was that feeling again. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, like he was being watched. But he knew it was impossible; no one had followed him here. And if they had, he would have known it by now and the _other guy_ would have undoubtedly taken care of it. It was paranoia. Five years on the run, and now again. That had to do something to a man. Shaking the feeling off, Bruce made himself some hot tea before padding back to the living room.

He sat on the floor in the lotus position, his hands resting on his knees, index finger and thumb meeting to create an 'O'. He breathed deeply, inhaling and exhaling as he let the warmth from the tea spread from his belly throughout the rest of his body. _Relax. Breathe. You're in control. _Bruce thought to himself, keeping his breath even and his heartbeat steady.

_Are you sure about that?_

A shiver ran up Bruce's spine and he felt as if he had just been doused with cold water. The warmth had gone from him and suddenly he was very, very cold. The thought had come to him, unbidden. That sliver of doubt cracking the stony resolve that he had tried so hard to build in the past month. He clenched his eyes shut harder, trying to keep his breathing even as his fingers started to shake from the cold. His heart rate hitched.

_Look at you. You're pathetic. Nothing more than a beast, making play he's still a man._

_No… no! I'm different. The _other_ guy…_

…_is you. You are one in the same. Why fight it? Why pretend to be anything other than what you are? _

His heart was pounding in his chest as cold sweat trickled down his neck. He could feel it. _Him. _Anger and self-loathing boiled in his veins as he struggled to keep his composure, his breathing coming now in ragged gasps. But he was still there, his consciousness, his thought.

_Let it go._

The voice was so smooth as it coaxed him, so tempting. Yes, it would be so much easier to just let go. To just let the other guy take the reins and relinquish his fragile hold on reality. It was so difficult. Why fight it? Bruce let his shoulders relax and stopped the shaking of his limbs. He felt himself slip away as pure, unbridled anger clouded his thought and took over his consciousness.

His eyes shot open. They were a toxic, acid green.

* * *

Flocks of birds took to the skies as a feral roar tore through the mountain range, shaking the core of the windy hills. A large, green hulking figure emerged from the rubble of a dilapidated cottage and tore off towards the forest, disappearing into the line of trees.

Unawares to all, even the wildlife, another pair of green eyes watched with delight as the Hulk destroyed everything in its path. The beast had longed for control, he had only made the choice simpler: by taking it away. After all, there could only be one pulling the strings. A crooked, cruel smile played at his lips as the fallen God of Mischief beheld the results of his handiwork. Maybe his _brother_ was not so misled in his admiration of mortal men. They made such wonderful playthings.

Perhaps Midgard was not so boring after all.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! This is my first attempt at writing in a long, _long_ while, so I hope it wasn't too terrible. Please review and let me know what you think!**


	2. Cold

**Thank you to those who favorited/story alerted. I'm touched! Here's the next chapter. **

**_Cold_**

Steve Rogers wasn't a fan of the cold, but it seemed that the cold liked him.

He surveyed the barren wintry landscape before him. Endless rolling hills of snow reminded him of another familiar ice land, a place where he had spent the last seventy years of his life. It wasn't exactly Steve's idea of homey, but then, nothing really fit that description anymore. Home was far afield; a different time, a different place. The arctic was not it, no matter which pole he was on.

Now, crouched in the cold with snow half way up his boots, Steve could not help but feel out of place. He was a team player, a soldier. One-man reconnaissance missions were not his specialty, especially when he had no idea what he was looking for. The winds howled passed the dunes and echoed through the white plains in an endless wail. The SHIELD issue black ops gear felt heavy and foreign against his skin; the Kevlar vest was itchy and the layers of insulation and padding hindered his movements. He couldn't help but feel like a moving target, the only spot of black against the endless overlay of white snow. Then again, his previous uniform wasn't exactly the most subtle thing in the world, but at least it was familiar. And he would be able to move around better. Every step he took, he felt the heaviness of the piece of metal at his side hitting against his thigh. No shield this time. Lethal weapons only. If he met anyone, he had orders to shoot on sight, no questions asked. He was never one for questions anyway, but Steve wondered briefly why anyone would be down here anyway.

_Why am _I _even here?_

A buzzing in his ear shocked him out of his reverie. He'd forgotten about the COM piece. He would probably never get used to modern technology. Agent Hill started speaking instructions in his ear.

"_There should be some sort of ventilation shaft about 600 meters west. That's your entrance. We won't be able to guide you down there, Captain. Turn by turn ends here."_

"Any hint on what's on the other side?"

A pause. "If we knew for sure, then we wouldn't need you, Captain. Good luck."

Steve wasn't stupid. Though he was not always privy to semantics, he did not miss Agent Hill's pointed "_for sure_." SHIELD was an organization that made its name knowing things that other people did not; that they didn't know "for sure" meant that they had a hunch, which was a scary thought in and of itself.

Trudging forward through the snow, he glanced up at the sun circling the sky above, the bright star casting its blinding light down on him and reflecting off the reflective white snow. He remembered back to a geography class he had taken back in college, something about the arctic summer days lasting months. It was December, which meant that the sun wouldn't be setting until next March. It made telling direction quite difficult, but then Steve remembered the digital watch strapped around his wrist. Fumbling with it through his thick gloves, he pressed a few of the side buttons until a compass appeared on the tiny screen. The latitude and longitude numbers on the side changed with every step he took.

Once he reached the set coordinates, he stared at the ground. Snow up to his knees. He detached the shovel strapped to his backpack, and with a grunt, started digging.

x

Steve knew where he was as soon as he dropped from the chute and his boots made contact with the metal grate. He had felt it in his gut long before his eyes ever saw the six-tentacled insignia decorating the walls. Now he knew why they sent him. This was a HYDRA base.

And long deserted by the looks of it. Corridors of metal and stone had since frozen over, painting the entire facility an eerie sheen of blue. Sharp icicles lined the ceiling, threatening all those who dared to walk beneath them. Electricity, from what Steve could see, was still miraculously up and running; a few floor lights illuminated the way. But the way to what?

He found out soon enough. At the end of the corridor, he came upon what looked like an old research laboratory. At least, what was left of it. The steel door that used to block its entrance had been blasted off its hinges and now laid in a pile with other pieces of broken glass and debris. The whole thing looked like something out of a macabre horror movie. Broken cages filled with dead and frozen lab rats lined the walls and all of the complex looking equipment had been tossed haphazardly throughout the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve glimpsed a dark stain coming from behind a counter. _Blood_.

Slowly, cautiously, he started towards, avoiding the wreckage and staying as quiet as possible. Instinctively, his hand went to palm the gun holstered to his hip, the only means of defense he had with him.

It was the stench that got him first. It was a smell that he'd not soon forget, one that he remembered from his time serving in the army: rotting flesh. Then, he saw them. Perhaps half a dozen of men in white lab coats, lying lifelessly on the ground with their eyes still open and faces morphed into expressions of perpetual shock. There were no visible injuries to speak of; the bloodstain had come from a head wound suffered by the man closest to Steve, whose head appeared to have bashed against the desk when… well, Steve didn't know. But whatever it was packed a serious punch.

Steve's ears perked up when he heard a noise and every bone in his body froze. It was a tiny sound, barely audible even in the cold silence of this underground cavern. It came from this room. A soft whisper of air. A sigh.

And then he saw her. A girl. No, a woman. Dressed in a dirty, tattered exam gown, she sat in the corner, half of her body propped upright as she slumped against the wall. Long hair matted with dirt and grime hung in unkempt dreads down to her waist. She looked more like a corpse than anything else in the room, but then Steve saw the barest rise and fall of her chest, the slightest twitch in her shoulder.

_She was alive._

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Right now I'm just setting the stage... for what? I'm still trying to put all the pieces together, but it'll pick up soon, I promise! Review please—your opinions matter!**_  
_


	3. Vitale

**A big thanks to all who reviewed/favorited/alerted. Means the world and keeps me going this otherwise _extremely _uneventful and dull summer. Here's the next chapter. Enjoy!**

* * *

**_Vitale_**

_She was alive._

"Miss," Steve called out, taking a tentative step forward. "Are you alright?" A piece of glass crunched loudly under his boot and all of her movement stopped. Her shoulders ceased their shivering and the subtle rise and fall of her chest stopped as well. Steve froze, standing stock-still and squinting at her. He couldn't hear the sound of her breathing. He was beginning to wonder if he had imagined her moving at all.

_Your gun, Steve. Get your gun. _His gut was telling him that something wasn't right here. Warning signals were going off in his brain, the soldier urging him to draw his weapon, that he needed to follow his orders: shoot on sight. But this was an unarmed civilian woman and, assuming she was even _alive, _in no condition to do anything to him. She'd been trapped down here under the ice for God knows how long, probably malnourished and hypothermic. She needed help. He needed to help her.

He started towards her again, stopping about a foot away, peering down to examine the girl more closely. From this proximity, he saw that she was indeed alive and shivering ever so slightly. Her head was lolled to the side, strands of filthy hair clinging to her neck and arms, falling to the floor. Her arms and legs were thin and bare, covered with a thick layer of dirt grime, her nails long, broken and jagged. Around her left ankle was a metal band with a string of numbers etched across the surface. Steve realized with a sick feeling in his stomach that the band was similar to the tags cuffed to the feet of the rats. She had been their prisoner. HYDRA had experimented on her.

"Miss," he tried calling to her again, not even sure that she could hear him. No response. "I'm going to get you out of here."

Softly, he reached down and firmly grabbed one of her arms, slinging it over his shoulder as he slowly eased her up into a standing position. A soft noise of protest left her lips, but otherwise she made no attempt to resist. Steve was surprised to find her skin to be inexplicably warm to the touch, and not cold and clammy like he had expected it to be. She seemed not to be fully conscious, swaying from side to side, legs wobbling like jelly beneath her. He crouched down, his free arm that was not supporting her going around to scoop up her legs so that he could carry her.

Before Steve could get a proper grip, it was like someone had flipped a switch and the girl came to life. In his surprise at her sudden outburst and the unexpected impact from one of her flailing fists making contact with his middle, he relaxed his grip. With a hoarse cry, she tore herself away from him like her body was on fire, getting as far away from him as possible. He tried to grab her, but she was surprisingly swift for someone who had just been unconscious. She scrambled to the other side of the destroyed lab.

"Wait, the glass—!" But she didn't stop, bare feet stomping over the shards of glass, leaving a bloody trail with every step. She didn't slow or even give any indication that she felt them. Steve ran after her and blocked her before she could reach the destroyed exit, cornering her to the wall.

Steve saw her face for the first time as she stared at him, eyes bright, wide and fearful. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her side as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, nervous and unable to keep still, like a wild animal. Her eyes darted to the side and she saw the corpses and their contorted expressions. Renewed horror etched on her face once she looked back to Steve.

"Look," Steve said evenly, putting his hands up as a sign of peace. "I'm not going to hurt you." He took a slow step forward, and she flinched and backed away. "I'm trying to help you."

She stammered something in a foreign language, her voice cracking at the effort. Steve took another step forward, and before he could blink, she had darted away again. She was fast. She disappeared somewhere in the back of the room. Steve heard the sound of glass breaking, and the girl reemerged seconds later.

Holding an axe.

She had a wild look in her eye. And before Steve could even open his mouth to speak, she was running towards him, weapon held aloft.

Then, self-defense kicked in and Steve did something that he would later come to deeply regret. Without even thinking, the gun was in his hand. He cocked it and pulled the trigger.

Time slowed down. Instead of being knocked over by the impact, she stopped mid-step and stood completely still, her arms falling limply to her sides as the axe fell to the floor with a clatter. Her eyes were bright and wide with an emotion that Steve could not quite identify, and they bore straight through him. Her head slowly dropped to look down herself as the red spot staining her stomach grew. A thin, shaking hand brushed against it. Imploring. Curious.

She dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Blood pooled around her.

_I shot her. I shot her, and it went right through her. I killed her. _Steve was reeling. He had not thought, he had just reacted. He could have easily deflected her, axe or not. She was just a little _girl, _for Christ's sake. A scared, hurt, and confused little girl. He lied to her. He promised that he wasn't going to hurt her, and then he went and shot her. In his distress, he ridiculously thought back to Dr. Erskine and what he would say if he were still here. He was supposed to protect. He was supposed to be good._ Oh my god, I killed her. I shot and killed a girl. She going to die because of _me.

But there was still time. Maybe he could save her. No, he _would_ save her. Tossing the gun aside, he crouched beside her, taking the pack off his back and scrambling to get the medical kit out. She was lying on her back, a deep red stain over her abdomen. She was pale as a sheet, but thankfully breathing, short shallow breaths. Fumbling with his fingers, he ripped her gown over her stomach to get a better look at the wound. He cringed. He did not have enough bandaging for this. Getting some antiseptic and a towel, he quickly cleaned the area, even as thin streams of red liquid continued to flow. Then, grabbing as much gauze as he could in one hand, he moved to place it on the gash. Hovering over the area, he froze.

The steady trickle had stopped. The dark red tissue and muscle began to pull itself back together as the dark red receded and disappeared. The jagged edges of perforated flesh mended themselves and the angry bruises that had begun to form around the wound faded and disappeared. Steve could do nothing but look on, slack-jawed as the color returned to the girl's face and her breathing became stronger and even.

Tentatively, he reached out a hand to lightly graze over where the wound had been. Only smooth flesh. He retracted his hand abashedly. Then, remembering the glass, he shifted over to examine her feet. Dirty, but equally smooth and scar free. He gazed at her face in awe and bewilderment—and perhaps a tad of fear. In sleep, her expression was serene.

_What _are _you?_

* * *

She came to at the sound of running water and a pair of hands briskly combing through her tangled, knotted hair. For a moment, she let her eyes remained closed as she reveled in the soothing feeling of the warm water against her scalp. _Warmth. _When was the last time she had felt warmth? It was such a distant memory that she could hardly recall, but it was still there if she concentrated hard enough. A tender hand combing gently through her hair and bright rays of sunlight shining on her face. A sharp tugging at her scalp sent her tumbling back to reality. She was no longer in the arctic; it was no longer cold. There were people around her. Sounds of rustling and rummaging ringing in her ears. She tried to move, twitch her finger or wiggle her toes, but discovered that she could not lift them. Tiny pinpricks ignited all over her skin at the effort and her limbs still refused to move, heavy at her sides like lead. The familiar feeling of being paralyzed left a growing feeling of nausea in her stomach. With all the strength she could muster, she forced her eyes to open, and instantly regretted it. A bright white light shining directly overhead made her squint. Suddenly, a shadow came over her face, and a white masked man wearing goggles came into view.

"You're awake," the figure said, sounding more like a question than a statement. "We'll need to up the dosage. Nurse?"

Before she could so much as blink, she felt something sharp puncture her arm, and then—once again—darkness.

* * *

Steve stood outside the decontamination room, watching the team of doctors and nurses cleaning the girl up. They had her on an operating table, rolled over to a sink where a nurse began washing her hair while another came round with a bucket and towels. Steve frowned when the head doctor hovered over the girl briefly before the nurse pushed another round of sedative into the girl's arm. The furrow between his brows deepened. That was the third one within the past twenty minutes. Before Steve mulled over what that meant, the doctor turned around and waved his hand at Steve to leave. The nurse nearest to her feet began slicing through her ragged gown with a pair of scissors. Steve started down the hallway, the viewing window darkening to match the color of the wall as he turned.

"Captain." Steve turned to see Nick Fury standing at the end of the hallway, grim and humorless as ever. "A word."

Steve heaved a heavy, resigned sigh of a man who had seen far too much in his—arguably—short life. Drawing himself up to his full height, he followed.

"Director Fury," Steve nodded upon entering into the small, makeshift office in the underground bunker in which they were currently situated. Fury was sitting behind the desk, sorting through some papers. Just how many bases of operation did SHIELD have just lying around in the world?

"You had one order, Captain: shoot on sight. What part of that did you not understand?"

"With all due respect, sir, I thought my mission objective was strictly reconnaissance."

"Your objective is whatever _I _say it is. Your orders were clear." Fury sighed, fingers coming to pinch the bridge of his nose. "We got intel a few days ago, satellite images showing that a group of unidentified travelers had found their way into an old HYDRA base. Next thing you know, radiation over Antarctica shoots through the roof. You were supposed to get in and wipe them out."

_Because radiation wouldn't hurt me._ Steve thought, frowning. "They were already dead when I got there, sir. Some… thing beat me to it."

"And the girl?"

"An unarmed civilian woman, sir." Steve decided not to mention the part with the axe. "And… I did shoot her, sir." _Not one of my brightest moments._

Fury raised an eyebrow. The one over his good eye. "Right. If you did shoot her, then why isn't she dead?"

Steve fixed the Director with the most earnest look his baby blues could muster. "Sir, I think that's something you'll have to see for yourself."

* * *

**Thanks for reading! And once again, guys, I'm so flattered by the favorites/alerts. I hope I didn't disappoint! Review and let me know what you thought! -K.**


	4. Change

**Putting together a cohesive plot is harder than I thought, and I'm still working on it. Everything sounds better and makes more sense when it's just thoughts and ideas in my head. Anyway, here's the next chapter! Hope you guys like it. (:**

* * *

**Change**

* * *

The brutal, howling winds of the Mojave Desert in the wintry seasons were irritating in many ways. While lesser beings complained of the biting cold and dry eyes, the God of Mischief found it irksome for another reason entirely. He found that the weather weakened his hold on his mortal host: the doctor.

Cold weather didn't agree with Erik Selvig's bones, and on many mornings his aching joints made the aging astrophysicist loathe to get out of bed. Loki found that for all the gentle coaxing that his silver tongue hissed into the ailed man's ear, he could not rouse the prematurely rheumatic gentleman. In Loki's incorporeal state, there was little he could do to remedy the situation when the human's stubborn health and creaking limbs delayed the former's plans—especially from galaxies away. And while creating a corporeal doppelganger would have been a trivial task, Loki could not yet risk revealing himself, especially when he felt the weight of Heimdall's heavy gaze upon this subterranean facility, no doubt reporting the slow progress of the mortals back to the All-Father.

On this particular morning, however, Loki stood atop the entrance of the cement and metal structure, cold eyes gazing past the bleak horizon. Blankets of newly fallen snow crunched beneath his feet. From what he gathered from snippets of conversation lifted from the mortal guards, such weather was a rare occurrence for this particular biome of planet Earth and they complained bitterly for it. Mortals were such laughably fragile creatures. A little rain, a little snow, and they go scrambling like ants to their underground tunnels. Loki, on the other hand, did not mind the cold. He enjoyed the bracing sting of it against his skin. But, on this day, he did not stand there for his own pleasure. No. He had felt a shift. Something in the world had changed.

The Tesseract. For weeks now, he had felt them. Tiny, sporadic power surges too slight and too quick to be picked up by any existing instrument on Midgard, but the Liesmith could feel them as assuredly as he could feel the magic coursing through his bones. And then, this morning, the cube ignited long enough for the human machines to finally pick it up before returning to stasis. The base was in a tizzy. _A spontaneous event_, they called it, but Loki knew it was not so. The Tesseract was reacting. The only question was, to what?

"Dr. Selvig?"

Loki bit back a sneer as his ungainly oaf of an assistant appeared from below. He acknowledged the fellow with the barest inclination of his head as the latter bounded up the side of the snowy hill to stop merely inches away from where Loki's apparition was standing. The god took a few steps back in disgust.

"Doctor, what are you doing out here? It's freezing!" The buffoon wiped at the trail of snot dripping down his nose, teeth chattering loudly only after moments of stepping outside. For all of Idunn's apples, he could not recall the boy's name.

"Hm, I quite enjoy the cold," Loki sniffed lightly, the hapless doctor repeating the god's words shortly after.

"But… your rheumatism, sir." Loki glared at the human, his fingers itching to transfigure him into a worm, a turtle, or something else blessedly mute. "Is everything alright?" the assistant shifted uncomfortably, and Loki realized that he had let the doctor blankly stare at the boy for a second too long.

"I'm fine," Loki snapped brusquely. "Did you need me for something?"

"Yeah, we just needed you to look over a few calculations before we recalibrate the instruments." The boy was still looking at him strangely.

"I'll be down shortly," Dr. Selvig replied as the boy nodded, disappearing back into the entrance. Loki could not help a roll of his eyes at the dutifully obedient behavior. Give a man a title, and the rest scramble for his approval. Could they do nothing left to their own devices? Did they crave reaffirmation so dearly? It was a pathetic eyesore… and a plague on humanity, which Loki would soon see cured.

Closing his eyes briefly against the wind, Loki diverted his attention back to the overcast skies as he tried to feel for the foreign presence, finding with chagrin that he could no longer detect it. Loki swallowed his doubts, the corners of his nostrils curling upwards in a barely concealed sneer. Whatever it was, it would no longer be of any consequence. There were more important matters that required his attention. His army was waiting. He need only bide his time for a bit longer whilst the mortals did the work for him. Then, all of Midgard would be at his feet.

* * *

Elephant tranquilizer. Two rounds. That's what it took to keep the girl under long enough for them to run the tests that they needed on her. Blood, cheek swabs, nail clippings, hair samples, x-rays, CAT scan, dog scan, the whole shebang, and by the end of it all Nick Fury found himself neck deep in lab reports he couldn't comprehend and none the wiser. All test results came back painfully normal; physiologically, she was as human as he was.

"Barton, tell me something I don't know," Fury sighed as the sharpshooting archer entered his office. He pinched the bridge his nose as Barton responded by simply placing another folder of papers atop the ever-growing pile. This was turning out to be more trouble than it was worth. He had bigger matters to worry about. Like the safety of the world.

"She's got a clean bill of health… obviously," Barton said. "All the tests are done. The only thing is we couldn't get an image of her brain. MRI didn't work."

"What do you mean it didn't work?"

"I mean they put her in, turned it on, and it fizzled out. Now it won't turn on. She's giving off some kind of low-level interference. None of our scans can get a clear read on her."

Great. More funds he could not spare. This venture was turning out to be a complete waste of time. Fury scanned over the packet, fixing his right eye on Agent Barton. "But she's definitely human."

"Blood type B and 46 chromosomes."

Fury could feel a migraine coming on. "Do we have and ID?"

Barton picked up a manila folder from the top of the mountain and opened it. "Lily Fryer. Age 23." There was a pause as Barton appraised the attached picture. "Stunner."

Fury mouth twitched. "Anything _relevant?"_

Barton sobered up immediately, realizing that his boss was definitely not in the mood for jokes. "No living relatives. We got a birth certificate and a Swedish PIN. No other records," Barton stated, frowning. "Do you think she could be one of _them_?"

Fury knew that Barton was referring to the fiasco back in Puente Antiguo just months prior. The agent had arrived at the little desert town just in time to see Thor, the self-proclaimed god of thunder, ride down from the skies in a twister. With one mighty swing of his hammer, Thor unleashed a flurry of lightning that brought down the giant metal destroyer. And then, just like that, he vanished. Of course, SHIELD was stuck with the cleanup. While the girl in question could not be more far off from that beast of a man, there was just something about her that Agent Barton found _off. _And his eyes never missed a thing.

But still, being _off_ wasn't enough. There was no point in keeping her with SHIELD, no matter how bizarre her particular little magic trick may be. In the thirty-six hours that she had been inside this facility, she had not uttered a single word, English or not to any of the personnel or any of the translators that he had interrogating her. As far as Fury was concerned, she was dumb and mute and he had already wasted enough time and resources trying to get anything out of her.

Oh, yes. That was definitely a migraine. "Unless she poses some kind of huge, immediate threat to international safety, I could care less if she was some great magical fairy! Put her at the bottom of my list. Have someone keep an eye on her. "

"I'm on it, boss," Barton grinned.

"Oh, not you. I have another job for you," Fury smirked at the Hawk's disappointment. "Give it to someone with nothing better to do."

* * *

Steve Rogers squirmed in his seat on the jet, his uneasiness growing every second. His large fingers drummed across the surface of his armrest nervously, eyes darting back and forth between the window and the solemn girl sitting opposite him in the aisle. He startled when he saw that she had caught him looking, her dark eyes narrowing at him. He quickly averted his gaze back to the window and stared down at the ocean with renewed interest.

_Ninety-three years and you still can't talk to women. _Steve thought to himself wryly.

Under normal circumstances, he could at least think of one remotely clever thing to say to get a conversation going. This, however, was not a normal situation. After all, how many times does a man usually get a chance to talk casually to someone he shot through the gut?

_Hey, sorry about that whole shooting you thing… total accident. How about we start over? My name's Steve. What's yours?_

He almost choked out a laugh at the complete absurdity of the thought. But then, he honestly could think of nothing better to say. The same could be said of this entire situation. All this secret agent business was not Steve. He was not a master manipulator, he could not speak multiple languages, he was not trained in various forms of martial arts, and, frankly, he was having trouble even looking a woman in the eye.

But she was more than just a woman. Steve had seen the evidence of it firsthand as her skin miraculously stitched itself back together, healing the hole he had put into her. Now, here they were, sitting on a jet en route to New York only two days later, and she was sitting, living, breathing just across the aisle seat. Looking at her now, she could not be more different than the walking corpse that he had hauled back from the arctic. In fact, he had mistaken her for an agent while they were waiting to board the aircraft. The one thing that shocked him the most was her hair. It was a pale blonde that now streamed softly down her back in waves. Just how long was she captive in those conditions that turned her hair into the dark, dirty mess that it was when he found her?

The guilt twisted in his stomach. How could he have done that to her? She was scared, confused, and alone. She was right to attack him. It was the smart thing to do. Steve was the one that had no right to shoot her.

Guns were never his weapons of choice. Point and shoot. It was always a little to personal to Steve. Arbitrarily picking a moving target from a sea of bodies and pulling the trigger. No, he had always preferred his shield. It was not always the most practical in times of war, but it served him well. He was a protector first and foremost. He should not have been carrying a gun that day.

Steve made up his mind. He would apologize. He wouldn't be able to live with himself otherwise.

_Well, you start small. _Steve thought, scooting forward in his seat. She must have seen him move out of the corner of her eye because her posture stiffened visibly.

"Hi," he faltered at the introduction, perhaps realizing too late how lame he sounded. He put every ounce of sincerity he could into his voice. "Now, I don't know if you can understand me, but I just wanted to…"

She was staring at him now. Hard, but not unkind. Her gaze was bright like the moon shining over the eye of a storm. The corners of her mouth twitched, the shadow of a smile. Then, she looked away.

Steve released a breath that he had not realized he was holding. The air in the craft was suddenly lighter, more breathable. "I'm sorry," he muttered just loud enough for her to hear, though he knew that it was not needed.

If she had heard him, she gave no indication. Maybe she didn't understand. She closed her eyes to sleep.

The silence was comfortable now and the near future suddenly looked less grim. Steve followed suit and closed his eyes, drifting off grateful with the knowledge that he had already been forgiven.

* * *

**I'm trying to stay pretty true to canon events, so how am I doing so far? Love it, hate it, don't care either way? Let me know in a review! (: **

**Thanks for reading!**

**Best,**

**Kat**


	5. Conversations

**The latest installment! I'm still debating some plot issues in my head, but it's slowly taking shape! I just hope nothing got lost in translation in the transition from imagination to writing. Once again, I'm extremely grateful to everyone who reviewed, favorited, alerted. You guys keep me going! (:**

* * *

**Conversations**

* * *

"Home sweet home," Steve muttered as he stepped out of the cab and into the familiar chill of Brooklyn in the winter. As his breath fogged in the dim lighting of the streetlights and the snow, he almost believed his own words; it was like he had been transported back in time and the waves of nostalgia that he had been fighting came crashing through him like a freight train. He took a moment to breathe in the city air, taking it all in, smog and all.

There were so many memories, still fresh in his mind as if they had happened yesterday. He remembered the alleyway just around the corner and the taste of the gravel. He remembered the house he was raised in and the ten other nameless boys who shared it with him. He remembered sitting in a car and being driven down this very street, and a light, but loaded conversation with a dark-eyed, red-lipped woman. They'd talked about dancing.

Someone coughed softly behind him and he was abruptly thrust back into the present.

Realizing he had stopped right in front of the backseat door, he turned to see her staring at him expectantly, an almost puzzled expression on her face. She'd yet to speak a word to him, so he'd been relying on her facial expressions alone to decipher what she wanted. A feat easier said than done, Steve soon realized.

"Oh, sorry. Let me, miss" he couldn't help the 'Miss' that his good manners to attach at the end of that sentence. He had a feeling they were passed such niceties, but habit was a stubborn creature. Steve moved to help the warmly bundled girl out from the backseat of the cab, but she got up and out on her own, ignoring his outstretched hand and brushing past him. Sighing, he moved to the window to pay their driver, who had not said so much as a word of greeting to them since they had clamored into the vehicle at the airport. "How much do I owe you?"

The man shook his head, eyes shielded behind a pair of dark sunglasses. It was nighttime. "Don't worry, it's been paid for. Have a good evening, Mr. Rogers. Miss Fryer."

Steve shook his head as the cab pulled away, not even bothering to wonder how the very cab he had randomly flagged down happened to be an agent. Perhaps it was Fury's not so subtle way of reminding him: _I've got my eye on you._

"C'mon, let's get inside." He motioned for her to follow, but she was staring at the glittering bridge and Manhattan skyline in wonder. Sometimes it was hard to tell if those were skyscrapers or stars that twinkled at them from afar. After a beat, she turned and shuffled after him towards the snowcapped, red brick building before them.

After fumbling with his keys for a bit, Steve opened the old wood double doors and led her inside what appeared to be an old fashioned gymnasium, complete with a large boxing ring and an array of different sized punching bags. The walls and floors were padded collegiate blue and a long row of mirrors lined the opposite wall. She walked in slowly, looking around and appearing quite lost.

"It's a—Fury had this set up for me. Sorry if the décor's not to your taste. Mine's a little outdated," Steve said, feeling a need to break the heavy silence. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Um, kitchen's in the back. There should be more than enough food so you don't ever have to leave. I mean, not that you're a prisoner or anything. You can leave if you want to—but don't, because I'm supposed to keep an eye on you. Wait, no, that came out wrong—"

At this point, Steve realized that he was babbling, every stammered sentence more incoherent than the last. But he couldn't help it. Amidst his monologue, he had realized with a sinking feeling that this was the first time he had ever been alone with a woman. Truly alone. There was no one else in the building but them, and they'd be living together from now on. The indecency of it all was enough to make his cheeks color and his palms sweat. _This is work, Steve. Work._ He reminded himself and took a deep, calming breath.

"What I mean to say is, your room is upstairs. Mine is back there, behind the kitchen." He made sure to gesture clearly and animatedly so that she understood.

She didn't respond (not that he had expected her to), and carried on as if she had not heard him, gazing at her surroundings with a bemused, but completely complacent expression. Steve, however, could not claim to possess such poise. He was not usually a man of many words, but the silence was deafening and he was beginning to feel more uncomfortable by the minute. He didn't know how he kept forgetting that she probably did not speak or understand a word of English. He may as well have been talking to a wall.

"Why did I agree to this again?"he softly wondered to himself. But then, he remembered that it had not been a request. And he had a feeling that Fury was not someone who he wanted to refuse.

Another few minutes ticked by achingly slowly before the silence once again became unbearably uncomfortable.

"I can, uh, help you to your room if you want," he pointed upstairs and fixed her with a questioning stare. "Miss Fryer?"

At the sound of her name, she perked up. Finally, she turned and met his gaze. He was surprised to find that her eyes, which he had previously thought to be pitch black, were actually just a deep, dark blue. However, this was nothing compared to the shock that followed, when her lips moved and a bright, lilting, but emphatic voice reached his ears.

"_Lily_."

And what's more, he understood her. Even though all she said was her name, at least it was something.

Steve closed his gaping mouth. "Come again?"

"Lily," she repeated. "My name. You may use it."

"You speak English," Steve stated dumbly. _Obviously._

"Yes," she agreed readily. "I do."

Steve wasn't quite sure what to do with this information. The entire time, she'd understood everything that had been said around her. And he'd looked like an idiot with all his needless hand motions. Somehow, that was his top concern.

"Why didn't you say so earlier?" he all but grumbled.

"I didn't trust you."

"But you do now?"

She paused, lowering her gaze. "You have an honest face," she finally admitted.

He felt a blush coming on. "Oh." He didn't know what else to say. Apparently, she was suffering from the same predicament. Shuddering slightly, she released a deep, shaky breath, suddenly looking very tired. Steve realized that their conversation was probably the first that she'd had in a long while.

She was the first to move. Shaking some melted snow off her boots, she picked up her duffle bag off the floor and wordlessly started up the stairs. Steve watched her go. Once she reached the top, she turned around, looking down at him.

"Goodnight, Mr. Rogers."

"Steve," he blurted. "My name. You can call me Steve."

The corners of her mouth quirked upwards, a ghost of a smile. It was the most she could manage.

"Goodnight, Steve."

A flash of pale moon hair, and she was gone.

Steve stood there for a long while after, rooted to the ground, staring at the spot where she had been. Finally, he willed his feet to move. Trudging back to his room, he wondered just what exactly he had gotten himself into.

* * *

**Project P.E.G.A.S.U.S.**

**Mojave Desert, California**

Barton squinted into the glass, ice cubes clinking together and amber liquid sloshing about as he none-too-gently set his drink on the table with a clang. Why was he drinking? Why was the room spinning? How did he even get here? All extremely valid questions, but none that he felt like answering at the moment. It had been a long time since he last let loose like this. So long, in fact, that he couldn't even remember it. It was all as well. He was supposed to be in Maldives by now, enjoying a well-deserved vacation in the warm tropical waters, blissfully free of any sort of tourists in the offseason. His first break in years. But instead, he was here, in an underground bunker in the middle of the Mojave desert, freezing his junk off in the subzero temperatures of the night.

_Cheers to you, Fury. _Barton thought, and tipped back his glass. Bottoms up. In truth, he wasn't exactly bitter about it. He knew that in his particular line of work, vacations usually meant something a little more permanent, like a small plot of grass on a windy hill.

He was faintly aware of the presence of a few other men sitting at the table around him. Scientists, whose names had escaped him already, but they were all each nursing their own drinks to fight off the cold.

"Can I offer you another round, Agent Barton?"

The voice came from his left. Barton swung his head around to stare at the man, promptly regretting his decision when the room started spinning. After a second, his eyes focused on an older gentleman dressed simply in a lab coat. A moment longer, and he made out the name on the ID card clipped to the man's breast pocket. _Dr. Erik Selvig. _

Why did that name sound so familiar?

"_I want you keeping tabs on Dr. Selvig for me. His lab assistants tell me that he's been acting a little bizarre as of late." _

Oh right.

"Agent Barton?"

"Yeah, Doc. I'd love another round," Barton said, grimacing a little bit when he heard his words run together. First night on this assignment, and here he was at afterhours getting plastered. He knew he shouldn't, but for some reason, he felt very compelled to drink tonight. And it was so hard to refuse when his cup always seemed to refill itself at the doctor's coaxing.

"Nothing like a bit of whiskey to keep warm, eh?"

"Yeah, but I'm still freezing my bits off," Barton chuckled, pulling the thick thermal jacket closer around himself. He glanced at Selvig's thin lab coat with a raised brow. "What about you, Doc? Aren't you cold?"

Dr. Selvig just smiled and tilted his own glass up slightly, taking a small sip.

"Earlier, you mentioned remembering me from New Mexico…?"

"Ah, yes," Selvig replied, nodding softly. "My student, Jane Foster, was the one who discovered… _Thor._"

Barton missed the disdain in the doctor's voice and shook his head as the memory came back to him. What a mess that was. "The world just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

"How so?"

Barton fixed the man with a look, which proved a more difficult feat than he'd anticipated. His eyes couldn't seem to focus on any one thing. "Giant green monsters tearing apart cities. Tony Stark, enough said. Frozen super soldiers. Thunder gods. Glowing blue power cubes. That weird enough for you?"

Selvig chuckled. "I suppose that is quite strange from your perspective."

Barton squinted. "But not from yours?"

The doctor stared at him a beat before saying sharply, "Drink up, Mr. Barton."

The archer stared down at his glass, his brows furrowed. He could have sworn that he had been at least half way done. Without a second thought, he lifted it to his lips and took a long swig. He could barely taste it anymore.

"I tell you, Doc. It's just weird. I mean, just last week, we dug up another person from the arctic. It kind of makes you wonder… just how many people are hidden out there, right under our noses?"

"Probably more than you'd think."

"I mean, now Fury's got her holed up in Brooklyn with the other guy they dug out of the ice. Right in the middle of the most populous city in America, and no one's the wiser."

Barton just kept on talking and talking. It was like his mouth was connected to a motor and someone else was behind the wheel; he just couldn't stop. The sensible part of him in the back of his head knew that he should not be divulging this confidential information to someone who only had a level four clearance, but he felt completely at ease, more so than he had in the past decade of his life. He had a feeling that if he just revealed everything, then all would be well. And sure enough, once he had said his piece, an instant lightness came over his body. His eyelids became heavy, and within seconds, he was slumped over his chair, fast asleep. With any luck, he might just forget all this unpleasant talk by the morning.

Meanwhile, Dr. Selvig appeared to be deep in thought, a decidedly severe frown upon his lips that was unbecoming of his usually pleasant countenance. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, his face returned to normal and he stood up, looking around in confusion. Grumbling something to himself about the cold, he bid the other scientists goodnight and left for his quarters.

And though no one could see him, Loki remained, standing imperiously over the snoring Agent Barton. He looked upon the mortal with obvious disdain, but the human had at least confirmed Loki's suspicions. The change he had felt must have been what the humans called "radiation." Then, there was the recent power surge of the Tesseract. The timing of the two occurrences was too perfect. Coincidence? Loki didn't care for that uncertainty.

_Brooklyn, New York, was it?_

Perhaps it was time for a house call.

* * *

**Is this a cliffhanger? If it is, I'm sorry! A necessary evil, unfortunately. I basically just stop writing when I run out of ideas. Also, it's 4am in the morning. Updates may slow down in the following weeks because my work schedule is just insane. That's summer for you, I guess. But please review! Did you like it? Hate it? Love it? Let me know, and tell me why! (:**

**Cheers,**

**Kat**


	6. Remarkable

**A/N: A (sort of?) longer chapter! I can feel myself getting back into my long lost groove. I literally have nothing else going on this summer aside from work, so I'm trying to fill my time with something at least semi-productive. Writing serves as both a creative outlet and stress reliever, two for one. **

**And so... they meet. **

**Sort of.**

**I'll stop talking now.**

* * *

**Remarkable**

* * *

During her time in captivity, Lily often thought of dying. It seemed to be the only answer to the endless days being trapped inside the cold, cramped metal cage where she was kept. Scheduled meals were slid in through a small compartment under the door of her cell. Meager and providing little sustenance, they were designed to keep her teetering over the edge of starvation. Her only clothing was a thin patient gown, and nothing else. She shivered throughout the nights, but never got sick.

Escape had never been an option.

But before she had figured that out, she had tried. Once. One day, when one of the labcoats came in to draw her blood, she had managed to struggle out of his grasp and tear down the corridor. She had no idea where she was going, but she ran until she felt her lungs would burst, knowing that this was probably going to be her only chance. If not now, then she'd likely be stuck down there forever. By some miracle, Lily found a ventilation shaft, crawled in, and made her way to the surface.

And was promptly blasted in the face by the fiercest arctic blizzard that she had ever witnessed in her life. Desperate tears that she had not noticed froze to her lashes. She realized then why nobody had bothered to chase after her when she ran.

There was nowhere to go.

Lily became despondent after that little fiasco. She no longer struggled or fought when her captors came in to take samples, no longer spoke. Instead, she just waited for the day when they finally got what they wanted and decided to kill her.

She wondered how they would go about that. Killing her, that is.

She would never beg for it. Whatever shreds remained of her pride and dignity would not allow her to beg for anything; no, she decided that when the time came, she would not fight it. Instead, she would welcome death with open arms.

But, things never go according to plan. Especially, it seemed, for Lily.

She'd went to sleep one night, shivering cold in her cage as usual, and woke up somewhere else entirely in a pile of rubble, having no recollection of who, what, when, or how she got there. Around her, dead bodies. Her captors. A terrible smell. And in front of her, a towering man with a gun strapped to his hip. He spoke to her, but she could not process what he was saying. She was raw, disoriented, the promise she made to herself completely forgotten. She found herself scrambling to get away, to find a way to get out of this situation. To remove herself from danger.

The next thing she knew, she had an axe in her hand and she was charging him.

She heard the gunshot before she felt it. Felt the warm blood trickling down her abdomen before she felt the pain. She looked down in disbelief, then up at the man who had fired the shot. Horror etched on his face. What had he said to her earlier? Maybe she should have listened.

Blood. So much blood. Had she ever bled this much before? Never. This must be the answer to her prayers. Surely this would kill her.

But then, coldness enveloped her body the likes of which she had never experienced before and blackness threatened to take over her vision. As her legs gave out and her body crumpled to the floor, a sliver of doubt crept into her mind. The last thought before her vision darkened was this: _I don't want to die._

* * *

Lily awoke with a start, shooting up in cold sweat and panting heavily. It took her a second to take in her surroundings, and after the brief disorientation passed, she sat up quickly, rolling up her shirt to examine her stomach. She'd felt it all over again. Groaning in frustration, she collapsed back down into the mattress, cursing at herself something fierce for being disappointed at seeing her skin, smooth and unblemished. She should be thankful that she was still alive, period. Instead, she found herself wishing that the wound had left some kind of mark, something to remind her that what happened to her had been _real._

Now, lying warm and safe in a comfortable four-poster bed in New York, it was easy to forget. It was about five in the morning and she could already hear the sounds of city life outside her window. Ordinary people, going about their every day business, without a care for anything, except their own personal dramas. It made everything all the more surreal. She wished she could be like them. And though she had made it through the ordeal intact, more or less, there was nothing to prove that it happened. Nothing but her memories, which in nature, were such an unreliable thing.

Lily blinked a few times, staring at the patterns on the stucco ceiling. _Maybe it was all a dream_. She thought to herself wryly. Many other images in her fickle memory proved to be nothing more but dreams. Why not this, too?

A loud growling sound filled the room and Lily rolled over, arms wrapping around her midsection, the offending culprit. When was the last time she had eaten? She couldn't even remember. With every that happened, she'd completely forgotten something as basic as eating. The realization made her lightheaded as the feeling of hunger suddenly went double-time, overpowering anything else she might've been feeling.

She was reluctant to leave the warm cocoon of her thick blankets, but she forced herself to get up, gingerly placing her socked feet on the floor. It was freezing. Spotting a wardrobe in the corner of the room, she slowly shuffled over to it, pausing before she slid the door open, revealing an entire dresser filled with women's clothing. Her eyebrows shot up and she pursed her lips, mildly impressed. Pulling out a forest green anorak, she slipped the garment over her shoulders, finding that it fit perfectly, she he had expected. The one-eyed man had not been kidding when he had told her that it was his business to know everything—apparently that even extended to her measurements. Slipping on her boots, she made her way downstairs to scrounge up something to eat.

The normalcy of a simple task such as preparing breakfast felt like a novelty to Lily. It was comforting, almost, to know that there were some things in life that never changed. She found a variety of complete freeze-dried meals in the refrigerator, along with cupboards chockfull of canned and packaged foods. It seemed that both she and her housemate were cooking illiterates.

After much deliberation, Lily finally decided on scrambling up some eggs with some bacon and toast. That was simple enough for her to manage. Rummaging a moment longer and gathering all the items needed, she turned on the stove and tossed in a few thick slices of bacon, reveling in the familiar, mouthwatering smell that filled the room. She decided in that moment that there was nothing in this world better smelling than bacon.

Lily was watching the meat sizzle, tongs in one hand and an egg poised to crack in the other when felt it. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and an involuntary shiver ran through her. She froze, back stiffening. An ordinary person would have dismissed such a feeling, but Lily knew it only too well. It had been her constant companion for the past year, or two, or however much time she had lost; she was being watched.

She whirled around abruptly, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm her nerves as her eyes carefully scanned her surroundings. Slowly, she made her way past the kitchen island and towards the gym. Meager rays of sunlight pooled in through the windows, but it was bright enough already for her to determine that she was, indeed, alone.

"Hello?" she called out, for good measure. Only silence in return.

Sighing at her own stupidity and paranoia, Lily turned, heading back to the kitchen to tend to her breakfast when the sound of a door creaking open made her shriek, the egg and tongs in her hands clattering to the floor.

"Whoa, what's the matter?"

Steve Rogers came in through the front doors, dressed in a grey sweater and dark sweatpants, looking slightly out of breath. His cheeks were tinged pink from the cold and he took in the scene, looking genuinely concerned. He pulled out the buds from his ears, fumbling temporarily with the tiny music player before simply shoving it all into his pockets.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

Lily wanted to sink into the ground and disappear, but she managed to keep her composure. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. I'm sorry, you just surprised me."

Steve grimaced sheepishly and ran a hand through his damp hair. "Sorry. I didn't think you'd be up."

"I didn't think you'd be either," Lily stated, looking around the room. This was quickly turning into another awkward situation. She had never been one for small talk… or any kind of talk. She never could quite articulate her thoughts as elegantly as they sounded in her head. But right now, there was nothing _but _small talk, so she settled for a lame question: "Good run?"

"Morning air helps to clear my head," he agreed. He didn't say anything else.

Usually, this would be about when Lily just let the conversation die off into awkward silence until somebody decided to walk away, but she was still slightly jittery from her little scare, the lingering feeling of a pair of eyes on her making her uneasy. She couldn't stand the silence right now, because it only amplified that feeling, so she said the first thing that came to her mind.

"So, do you always get up at the asscrack of dawn?" she blurted before she could process the thought fully, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.

Steve gawked, eyebrows shooting up. His expression struggle between looking appalled or amused before the latter won out. But Lily didn't see any of this because she was too busy closing her eyes, praying for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

"Glad to see that you're feeling better," he said kindly, chuckling.

"Please forget I said that," she grumbled.

"Why? It's true. Habit I guess, getting up before the sun rises." He put it much more nicely than she had. "Are you cooking something?"

"Yes, why? Oh, I'm sorry, I should have asked first—"

"Oh no, not that," Steve said earnestly. "Help yourself to whatever you like, it's just… do you smell something burning?"

"Oh _shit. _The bacon!"

Without a second thought, Lily dashed to the kitchen to find that a plume of black smoke was slowly rising from the pan, the burning smell filling the room. Coughing slightly, waving her hands around, she reached to pick up the pan by the handle, yelping and dropping it to the floor with a bang as the searing metal scalded her hand.

_This is why I never cook. I am never cooking again. _Lily thought to herself, stifling a groan as the pain radiated from her hand and up her arm. She didn't even notice that Steve had scrambled into the kitchen and turned off the stove until he grabbed her abruptly by the wrist.

"Wait, what are you—"

"You need to run it under cold water," Steve said firmly, his usual bashful demeanor gone and replaced by an authoritative frankness. He pulled her over to the sink and stuck her hand under the jet of ice cold water.

"No, it's okay. There's really no need…" Lily protested weakly, but when his grip did not loosen, her voice took on a hard edge. "_Let go of me." _

She wrenched her arm from his grip and took a few steps back, taking a few shaky breaths, unable to keep the glare from her face. She held up her hand in front of her for him to see as the angry, red burn faded and her swelling palms shrunk back down to their normal size and color. Pointedly, she waggled her fingers, turning her hand to show him the healed appendage.

"See? Like I said," she repeated softly, looking him square in the eyes. "No need."

"Oh," he said dumbly, a mystified expression on his face. He cleared his throat. "Right."

Sensing his discomfort, Lily changed the subject without missing a beat. "Uh, so… would you like some breakfast? I could make it this time, without burning anything."

"Are you sure? I should probably change the batteries in the fire detector first—" he stopped himself, eyes widening apologetically. "No offense."

Lily bit back a smile, but her eyes betrayed her mirth. "I was thinking toast."

"Oh. Okay. Toast. I love toast." He nodded.

After muttering something about washing up, Steve retreated down the hallway into his room. Lily heard the old pipes creak, signaling that he was taking a shower. She went back into the gym, gingerly cleaning up the smashed egg and the tongs from the floor. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. It was probably surveillance by SHIELD, she reasoned to herself. They probably had cameras somewhere, keeping an eye on her.

Deep down, however, she knew that it wasn't. She knew what cameras felt like, and this was a different feeling entirely. It felt more personal, like a pair of eyes searing into her, dissecting her, and all without her consent.

Making her way back to the kitchen, she slowed her pace and turned around again, surveying the room once more. Staring at the spot where she had just been, she could have sworn the air had shimmered slightly.

Lily shook her head at herself scornfully. "Don't lose your mind already, Lily," she mumbled under her breath. It was probably just dust catching the light or residual smoke from earlier.

Lily resolved quickly that she would dwell on it no more. In the kitchen, a _ding_ followed by a pop signaled that the toast was ready. She eyed the spot once more before turning on her heel and walking away, trying with all her might to ignore the persistent prickling of her skin.

[ + ]

_Unremarkable. _

That was the first word that came to mind when Loki beheld the girl slumbering in the dingy, old apartment of Brooklyn, New York City, a place he considered no more than a worm crawling up the bark of Yggdrasil, the world's tree. He sighed imperceptibly, irritated. She was pale and blonde, and appeared to be suffering from night terrors, shifting about fretfully in her sleep. A light sheen of cold sweat made her hair and sheets cling to her. Such weak minds humans possessed that bent so easily to the whims of dark illusions.

_Might as well have a look. _

Loki pursed his lips distastefully and stepped forward so that he towered over her bedside. Gingerly, he reached so that his hand hovered over her glistening forehead. He closed his eyes, preparing to peer into her dreams.

"_Rör mig inte_."

Alarmed, Loki snatched his hand away and recoiled, taking two steps back. His eyes snapped open and he studied the girl with carefully. Her eyes were still squeezed shut, her breath coming erratically, still trapped in her nightmare. She was still asleep.

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. She'd spoken Swedish, a descendant of the language shared between mortals and immortals from a time long passed, resembling the ancient tongue spoken in the realm eternal. _Don't touch me, _Loki understood. Perhaps, another coincidence. This girl seemed to be rather prone to those. Maybe it was only by chance, as well, that the Tesseract had reacted when they had pulled this girl out of the southern ice lands.

Still, Loki did not like chances. This time with renewed caution, Loki once again brought his hand to ghost just above her forehead. He watched her face carefully. When he was certain that she would not stir again, he closed his eyes and delved into her mind to see just what was causing her such turbulent sleep.

Brief images flitted past Loki's eyes, each passing as quickly as the flutter of a butterfly's wings. If he had been a man, and not a god, he might not have been able to see anything at all. And still, he struggled to keep up. Many of the images were too blurry to make out, but then, her erratic thoughts ceased their jumping and focused in on one particular memory. Loki found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. Sounds were muffled; every thing was muted, except for the sharp, shiny steel of the gun. There was a bang, and Loki felt something pierce his stomach.

Hissing, he violently tore himself away from the girl. He could feel the hole in himself still. He glared at her murderously, contemplating ending her life then and there. She had stilled her tossing and now rested there, body rigid and breath slow. It would be simple enough, slitting her throat as she slept. Then, in the morning, the anachronous soldier would discover her corpse. Surely enough, they would blame it on him. Or, perhaps Loki would make quick work of them both, and save SHIELD the trouble of a lengthy investigation.

Loki's fingers twitched, tempted to conjure up one of his daggers and be done with her. But he knew that now was not the time to draw unnecessary attention to himself. He still had much work to do.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the girl stir, bolting upright and gasping for air as if she had been underwater. She looked around the room, a crazed look in her eye before she came to her senses. He watched with fading interest as she lifted her shirt to check her abdomen, the pain in his own still very present. A new puzzlement alit in Loki's mind: how was it that her visions eluded him so? There might be more to be said about the human subconscious than for which the Liesmith had previously accredited.

A loud gurgling sound filled the room and the girl groaned, rolling over and clutching her stomach in hunger. Loki wrinkled his nose in distaste.

But, still—_unremarkable. _

With a soft sighing sound, the girl grudgingly got out of bed, swaying on her feet for a moment before looking in the god's direction. He froze. Could she see him? She couldn't possibly—

She started towards him and Loki held his breath, watching in the dimly lit room as her dark eyes bore right through him. Soon enough, she was right in front of him. She shivered slightly and he could feel the warmth radiating from her body. Loki peered down at the top of her head as she stared straight ahead, into his chest.

Then, without warning, she reached right through him and unceremoniously threw the doors to the dresser open.

Rolling his eyes at himself, he stepped aside to give her more space; although she could not really touch him in his spectral state, it was still disconcerting to have her reaching through him. It made his stomach twist into knots that Loki knew only to describe as akin to indigestion.

Soon, she was out the door and the God of Mischief deigned to follow her down the steps. It was a few hours before he would have to divert his energies back to Dr. Selvig in the desert. He could spare a bit more time observing this little fluke of a mortal girl.

Downstairs, Loki followed her into the kitchen area as she began rummaging through various cupboards, apparently trying to find something to eat. She finally settled on some disgusting looking strips of what appeared to be oily animal fat and slapped them into a pan. The exiled prince found the whole domestic scene entirely puzzling. The fire burst forth from the surface of the counter after she had simply twisted a lever. A heavenly smell that would have made Volstagg foam at the mouth in ecstasy filled the room. He was watching her intently now, purely for educational purposes. Grudgingly, Loki would admit that mortals were resourceful, if nothing else.

She was about to crack the eggs into the pan when Loki saw that she suddenly went rigid, back stiffening and her arms freezing in midair. Abruptly, she whirled around and her eyes darted across the room, frantic and searching. Breath catching, Loki studied her expression carefully before moving. There was no denying it now. She had sensed his presence whilst he still remained hidden from her sight. He backed out of the kitchen as she approached into a strange room padded with blue leather. He watched from the side bemusedly as she stalked quietly throughout the room, finding nothing. Her dark eyes shifted nervously throughout the room.

"Hello?" she called out tentatively. Her voice quavering, tremulous.

Loki bit his tongue—something he did not do often—to prevent himself from answering her greeting and causing some mischief at her expense.

Her question was met with silence. Straightening, she shook her head, berating herself for her own foolishness.

The next few things happened quite quickly. The front door swung open, and the girl screamed. Loki took in a sharp breath, narrowed his eyes at the tall, hulking man that appeared through the doorway. A sneer came, unbidden, twisting his lips to form a cruel shape. For a moment, he had lost himself and seen a different figure standing before him. One much more familiar who, at a time, he might have called 'brother.'

"Oh shit."

Loki tuned back into the conversation just in time to see the girl sprint back into the kitchen. Frowning, he noticed the smell of something burning. Back in the kitchen, he saw a cloud of black smoke rising above the fire. The girl reached for the pan, shrieking loudly once again, dropping the metalware to the floor with a clatter, clutching at her burned hand. The soldier grabbed her and thrust her hand under the waterspout, but she herself tore away. The fact that she looked more burned by his touch than by her actual wound did not escape the god's attention.

She held her hand up. "See? Like I said… no need."

Her hand—just seconds ago, an angry, puffy red—was completely healed.

Loki stared at her, the cogs in his head turning. What did this mean? The girl was human—Loki knew this for certain. He would have been able to feel the magic in her veins, sense her essence as one from a higher realm, or at least find some sign that she was more than she seemed. He detected nothing. She was mortal, just like all the others on this rock.

_But what more than that? _He wondered to himself as he watched her return to the smashed egg and fallen metal claws on the floor. Human, as she most assuredly was, there must be something more. Loki doubted that all of Midgard had developed the ability of accelerated regeneration. That certainly would throw a rather large wrench into his plans. No, it was something unique to her. Loki found himself wondering exactly what that _something _might be. He watched with keen eyes as she started away from him. Slowly, deliberately, she turned around once more, and Loki once again felt himself pierced by her dark gaze. Their eyes met.

She looked away and Loki released a breath that he had been unaware that he was holding. The girl shook her head, muttering to herself.

"Don't lose your mind already, Lily."

She left, leaving the Loki to stew over her words, a slow smirk spreading across his features.

_Oh, little Lily. You should not tempt me. _

The God of Mischief always loved a challenge.

* * *

**Oooh, not so unremarkable after all, eh? **

**This chapter came a lot easier to me than any of the previous ones, and I also liked it a lot better. Let me know your thoughts! **

**Time to catch about 3 hours of sleep and go back to work... I love my life. **

**Best,**

**Kat**


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